Friday, June 11, 2010

Teenage mutant ninja assholes

Six or seven young men, probably spanning the magical ages 17 to 20, almost walk past. Almost. Then one turns on a whim, redirects his friends, and just like that, the store is fully stocked with a species I like to call Teenagers With Time To Waste.

One of the younger guys approaches me, his face the very picture of cherubic sincerity, and asks, "Excuse me, ma'am - do you have vibrators?"

So that's it, huh? A little game of Shock the Old White Lady? (Hint: He has picked the wrong Old White Lady.)

I play dumb. "A vibrator? For what?"

"Ummmm...." His friends are tittering behind him as he grins and drops his gaze. "I don't think I should say."

I nod understandingly. He seems slightly uncomfortable now that the Old White Lady has become his vibrator confidante. "We do have a massager," I tell him, leading him to the product and putting it in his hand. His friends are loving this.

He turns the package over and around in his hands, his face a battlefield of curiosity and mild disgust, and blurts out, "This too big!"

Everyone laughs, and I figure that'll be the end of it. But now they're all loosened up and rowdy, and pretty soon the store is filled with the sound of teenagers being as loud as we all know teenagers can be.

Another one of the guys finds a megaphone, and wants me to unbox it so he can check it out.

My personal thoughts on the matter: Giving an obnoxious teenager a megaphone while in a store with other customers present is almost as intelligent a notion as giving the window seat to a sumo wrestler with explosive diarrhea.

I refuse to unbox the megaphone. Megaphone Dude and I go 'round a little bit; these guys were amusing at first, but now they're collectively getting on my nerves. One of his friends leans around me to read my nametag.

"Hey..." reads tag again "...Katty?" Well, yes, I can be catty, but it's not how my name is pronounced. Nice try. I acknowledge him anyway.

"Are you married, Katty?"

It's an odd question, so I give an odd answer. "Yes." I have no idea where this conversation is going, and I'm not sure I want to know how he'd respond if I said "No."

He looks surprised. As he probably should. He demands, "To who?"

I turn, lock eyes with him, and answer clearly: "My wife."

There is a split second when the whole group screeches to a completely silent halt; all that's missing is the sound of a needle ripping across vinyl. Then a collective "Whoooooooooooooo!" erupts from all the friends. Without another word to me, they turn and head for the exit in tandem and with all due haste. It's kind of amazing, like a school of fish who change course on a dime at the scent of danger or muff divery. The last thing I hear from them as they hustle out the door is "There's some freaky shit goin' down in here!"